


dream yourself far away

by rangerhitomi



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Dissociation, Dreams, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sexual Dissociation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8705608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: For a frozen moment in time, he entertains the idea that this is a reality—a reality, where maybe he and Nasch were human lovers, not the reality—but it’s a preposterous idea, because there is only one reality, and it is the one in which Durbe and Nasch are Barian lords, because they’ve never been humans. This is just a dream, and the firm mantra he repeats in his head should put him at ease, but he still feels as though he's betrayed his Nasch somehow.





	

One night _he_ comes to Durbe, conflicted and distracted and desperate and _beautiful_ , and there’s something wrong with the way he wordlessly takes Durbe’s hand and presses it to his crest, but they make love the only way Barians know how—through their gems, through their souls—and the familiarity soothes Durbe, so he can pretend for one magical night that all is well.

The next morning, Merag is gone, Nasch is gone, and with Nasch a piece of Durbe’s soul is gone, too.

The others grieve, and even Vector pretends—maybe too well; he had never liked Nasch and Nasch had never liked him—but none have the gaping chasm in their soul that Nasch once filled, none knew Nasch’s soft, gentle touch and reassuring voice that Durbe took for granted and now despairs of feeling, of hearing ever again.

Even the weather mourns Nasch and Merag; hot rain hammers at the palace walls where the Seven Emperors of Barian are whittled to five, angry hissing filling the eerily silent air as it hits the corundum spires and eats away at the stone, one drop at a time. It bites at his skin like thousands of tiny insects, but he sits outside in the thick of it, staring at the boiling ocean and wondering if God would bring them back if Durbe begged.

Nasch would never forgive me for that, he tells himself, and it’s the only thing keeping him from wading into the acid—for this was no ocean of water—and seeing just how deep the ocean was.

At first the others leave him to his thoughts. But as days stretch into weeks and weeks into months, the physical ache from Nasch’s absence is overwhelming and Mizael finds him wading into the waters that erode his rough skin almost instantly. He doesn’t have the willpower or the energy to fight as Mizael berates him for his stupidity and lays him down across Nasch’s throne for healing.

_We need_ _your leadership,_ Mizael tells him, and it’s less harsh and more urgent than Durbe has heard him speak before.

_I’m not a leader,_ Durbe wants to say, but his voice is hoarse and his body is spent and he falls asleep instead.

* * *

 

He dreams of Nasch.

It’s not quite Nasch; the body is human and the face obscured, but they sit on a beach of hot sand, not rock, and the cool, salty water washes over their bare feet. Durbe flexes his feet; he has toes, and they’re soft and pale, a stark contrast to Nasch’s sun-browned skin. They’re both wearing silks that don’t cover their shoulders or their knees, but Durbe lets himself admire the curves in Nasch’s calves, the tight, defined muscles in his arms. He wants to move the silks away, to see if the muscles in his chest and abdomen are just as beautiful, but his mind blanks when Nasch starts murmuring to him and the awareness of lips and a human mouth and a human— _everything_ hits him as Nasch kisses him, as though they’ve done this a thousand times, and maybe they have, in Durbe’s dream, because he whispers _yes_ when Nasch asks _is this okay_ and Nasch presses him into the burning sand and a tingle goes through Durbe’s toes and his middle pulsates and his heart stutters and his throat constricts and suddenly he is aware that his silks are pushed up to his hips and one strap is halfway off his shoulder. Nasch straddles him, hands buried in the sand on either side of Durbe’s torso, and _his_ silks are pushed up too, and the burning in Durbe’s face can’t possibly be from the sun, which is suddenly as distant and heatless as the stars.

It is at once the greatest pleasure and the greatest terror; his body begs for Nasch's touch and his mind screams to push him away. Yet he nods eagerly, panting for more, at all the moments Nasch pauses from sucking at Durbe's pale skin to ask that goddamn question  _is this okay_ and it isn't because it would only be _okay_ if this was really  _Nasch_ but Durbe feels the pleasure though his body and soul are disconnected, as though his soul is staring down at the body being fucked on a hot beach instead of living it, as though this dream Durbe isn't really _him_. He finds some comfort in that thought. Not enough.

_Durbe, Durbe_ , Nasch whispers raggedly, and Durbe’s calloused human fingers dig into Nasch’s taut arm muscles as he closes his eyes and grinds his teeth, and there’s a whole new warmth, a whole new pulsation, a sudden euphoria, and after an eternity of torturous skin-to-skin friction, Nasch lowers himself on top of Durbe.

_Durbe, Durbe, Durbe..._

He keeps whispering Durbe’s name.

Durbe wants to tell him not to say his name because it sounds _wrong_ coming from the obscured mouth of this faceless stranger who _looks_ like Nasch and _isn’t_ but he’s paralyzed. The false euphoria is fading as quickly as it had come; _this_ isn’t love, this is barbarism, this is animalistic, this is… this is _human_.

_This is just a dream,_ he tells himself, but this dream isn't under his control, and it's too familiar,  _it's just a dream_ , as though it's some kind of reality instead,  _it's just a dream_ , and he hates this human body for enjoying it,  _it's just a dream_ , and he hates himself for wishing it truly had been Nasch whispering in his ear and sucking at his skin and running his calloused hands over Durbe's hips and chest and feeling Nasch's hot breath in his open mouth, _it's just a dream_.

For a frozen moment in time, he entertains the idea that this is a reality— _a_ reality, where maybe he and Nasch were human lovers, not _the_ reality—but it’s a preposterous idea, because there is only one reality, and it is the one in which Durbe and Nasch are Barian lords, because they’ve never been humans.  _This_ is just a dream, and the firm mantra he repeats in his head should put him at ease, but he still feels as though he's betrayed _his_ Nasch somehow. 

He turns his head as the stranger bites at his neck—it feels good to this human body, but Durbe is detached from it, he is witnessing it from the outside—and there’s another blurred shape, something that might be a horse. It stares at him and he stares right back and for some reason it’s _familiar_ but before he can search his fuzzy memories to figure out why his subconscious has taken him here, to show him _this_ , he wakes up.

* * *

 

He is more than Nasch’s paramour, he realizes as he looks at his rough hands and runs his hands over his face, his chest, his gems; he is Durbe, Emperor of Barian World. He sits up on Nasch’s throne and looks down into the cavernous room. No one is there; he has no idea how long he had slept, how long he had experienced his sensuous nightmare. There's a reason he dreamed it, he thinks, he prays, maybe the key to finding Nasch is on Earth, among the humans. 

Sitting next to him is Nasch’s crest. He takes it, holds it, presses it to his gems. A flood of emotion fills his body and soul, a tidal wave so pure he might have wept had Barians had the capacity for tears, so powerful he cannot move until he finally gathers the energy to pull it away.  _This_ is what he needs; even the absence of Nasch gives him what his soul screams for, and _this_ is not artificial. 

Its meaning is clear to Durbe. If Barian World could not have Nasch and Merag, it still had Durbe, and Durbe could carry on their will in their absence. For the sake of Barian World, for the sake of his missing friends, he would lead. 

His legs are finally steady. He stands. He has spent too long wishing. It is time to _do._


End file.
